"Assuming that the straight line holds true," Justin said.
"Yeah. Well, additional evidence-"
Edgar spoke softly to Cassandra. "Cassie, I want to look at previous dates when Colonel Weyland took his tracers off-line."
"Weyland data is restricted," Cassandra said.
"Pretty please," Edgar said, and muttered something else Justin couldn't hear.
"Wilco," Cassandra said.
Edgar grinned. "Search Geographic satellite watch for unusual infrared spots during just those periods." He looked at Justin, face screwed up in speculation. "Ha. Has he ever made an emergency landing?"
"Last year. A rotor almost went. He was down overnight." Justin searched his memory. "And three years ago. Got caught in a bad storm. Put down overnight."
"The rotor should be on the maintenance records." Edgar muttered to Cassandra. Thermal maps of the glacier flashed by, held for the dates that Cadmann Weyland was known to be on one of his jaunts, and then rolled on. Justin watched in fascination as Edgar searched until two map images came into focus. They looked as if they had been taken from about two miles up, and on each of them, tiny heat pulses flared.
"Campfires." Edgar was utterly smug. "The dates probably match. Your dad put down overnight. First one matches the maintenance record. Second . ...h. It was one of those nasty little solar-flare storms. Must have gotten hairy up on Isenstine."
"And?"
"Your dad took a hard left turn here. Tricky. Then... Skeeter range is five hundred miles. Your father carries at least one spare, and doesn't like to space his fuel dumps further than eight hundred miles apart. That probably puts him about here-"
"Give me a vegetation map," Justin said.
Cassandra displayed some of the vegetation to be found in the area. "He brought back some Avalon succulents last time. Does that narrow things?"
Cassandra searched, and came up with a twenty-square-mile sprawl that met all of the conditions.
"Not bad," Justin said. "Look for heat sources." Four little pulses of red appeared. "Volcanic, on a cycle?"
"I've got a better idea," Edgar replied. "Cassandra-when was the last routine scan?"
Her familiar voice was warm and cool. "Eighteen hours ago, at the present level of magnification."
"Nighttime. Give me a thermal scan. Compare it to the chart we just made... and compare it again to... say, anything before three days ago, back to a month."
Edgar turned to Justin. "Does that about cover it? When was the last time your dad was out?"
"About two months."
"Good enough. So all we should have out there are some geysers, and maybe another hunter. Not likely in that little area, but maybe. Exclude all of that, and we'll have his campfire... "
"He likes wood-burning stoves," Justin said suddenly. "He's got a cabin, but it'll have a chimney."
"And... bingo."
They were looking directly down at a mass of trees near the eastern edge of Isenstine glacier. "Camouflaged," Edgar mused. "You could skeeter right over and never see it. That fire is stone dead now."
"Dad would put the fire out. He's very serious about that kind of thing."
"So. Time for the stove to cool. Figure he left five hours ago... "
Edgar rolled his eyes up, and thought. "With refueling... the skeeters make about a hundred and eighty kilometers tops... he should be right about..." He poked his finger at the map. "Here. Give or take fifty kilometers or so."
He grinned up at Justin. "Betcha," he said, and went for magnification. Geographic wasn't in position, but he diverted one of the weather satellites to optical mode. Cassandra kept cleaning up the image, searching for something moving against a white background...
They went in through the mountains, and past the savage crevasses of Isenstine Glacier. Justin could almost feel the cold.
And there it was, a flickering shadow. A red circle enclosed it and Cassandra zoomed in to show something that looked like a brine shrimp larva skittering across a pond. It was there one moment, gone the next. But Cassandra was on its track, now, locked on, and Cadmann was caught.
It was Skeeter II, its silver-blue length magnified by satellite optics. The view was from not quite overhead. It was a tiny bit of metal and plastic, a thing of Man flying across an impersonal wasteland. It carried plant samples and three of the human beings Justin Faulkner loved most in all the world.
"He'll need to make one more fuel stop," Edgar said. He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his seat. His round face wore a smile of enormous self-satisfaction. "But that won't take fifteen minutes. This close to home he'll probably want to push it. I'd set ETA at about three hours."
"Edgar... " Justin grinned. "Sometimes... "
"I know," Edgar said. "Sometimes I amaze even me."
"Three hours before he shows... " Justin glanced at his watch. "I want to get at him with a full report before anyone else can tell him what's happened." He squeezed Edgar's shoulder. "Thanks a lot, Edgar."
"First choice. Stringfish."
"You got it."
Justin ran out of the communications room, ideas and thoughts of saltwater eels swimming dizzily in his head.
Chapter 4
MOUNT TUSHMORE
To compare
Great things with small...
JOHN MILTON, Paradise Lost
The eastern wind turned unexpectedly fierce, burning right through the furs surrounding Cadmann Weyland's face, numbing him to the bone. It had swept across two hundred miles of Isenstine Glacier, picking up speed and dropping in temperature as it came. He shaded his face and cursed as he hauled the replacement battery across the intervening few meters between the fuel dump and Skeeter II.
Mary Ann remained in the cockpit, her cowled face visible through the powdered flurries. She would wait there until the last minute before jumping out to lend a hand. She had always hated the cold.
Sylvia, on the other hand, loved it. She was locking up the foamed plastic dump shed, motions brisk and merry. "That was the last one!" she called over the wind. "We'll have to restock before we take our next run!" Then she crunched across the ice to help with the pushing.
Mary Ann climbed out of the skeeter when they were about ten feet away, and opened the battery bay. She was reluctant, but deft, and had the old trunk-sized cartridge out in about fifteen seconds. It didn't require three of them to lock the new battery into place, but it was good to have the extra hands: unsnap the used-up power cell, swing it to the side, swing new unit into place, snap on connections, slide in, lock down.
Mary Ann shut the unit, puffed a breath of condensation, and said, "Let's get out of here!"
They piled into the autogyro's passenger cab. Cadmann was on pilot's position on the right, Mary Ann in the middle. Sylvia on the extreme left was last in, and slammed the door behind her. Mary Ann cranked the air blower up to a toasty pitch.
Cadmann watched the wind gauge to get a feel for the gusts. He couldn't take off if they continued to build. The gusts punched at the little gyro, rocking it, but not so hard now. Curtains of powdered snow danced across the glacier in front of them in a somberly beautiful winter ballet.
Mary Ann interrupted his thoughts with a plaintive "Can we get out of here? Please?" She hated that little-girl petulance quality in her voice, but it was there too often. She closed her eyes and hunched forward to catch a little more of the hot air. Cadmann caught Sylvia's eye. She winked at him, and put an arm around Mary Ann to help warm her. Even with the thirty pounds she'd gained since their second child, Mary Ann possessed little tolerance for cold weather, but despite her discomfort she rarely let Cadmann and Sylvia go on these trips without her.